


songbirds

by cacowhistle



Series: dsmp anthology [1]
Category: Hybrid SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Powers SMP
Genre: Family Dynamics, Fluff, Theyre Brothers Your Honor, Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: “Did you know,” Wilbur says one evening, leaning back against the tree Tommy is perched in, “there’s a kind of bird called a bushtit?”Tommy stills, wrist-deep in his own feathers, squinting down at Wilbur. “... should I find this funny, or be pissed off?”or;some brotherly bonding on the hybrid/powers smp.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: dsmp anthology [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168076
Comments: 17
Kudos: 347





	songbirds

“Did you know,” Wilbur says one evening, leaning back against the tree Tommy is perched in, “there’s a kind of bird called a bushtit?”

Tommy stills, wrist-deep in his own feathers, squinting down at Wilbur. “... should I find this funny, or be pissed off?”

Wilbur grins, sharp teeth a spot of brightness against the shadows that practically consume his semi-transparent figure. The phantom smiles, knowingly, and Tommy huffs as Wilbur gestures to his wings. Pissed off it is, then. He ruffles a wing over Wilbur’s head, dislodging dust and dirt onto the spectre’s head. Wilbur yelps, vanishing for a moment as the dust settles, before reappearing in front of Tommy with his arms crossed, floating a few feet above the ground.

“You,” he says, poking Tommy in the nose, “are a boring child.”

“You called me a bugtit.”

“Bushtit,” Wilbur corrects.

“Whatever,” Tommy says, swatting at Wilbur with one wing. “Help me get the back, will you?”

Wilbur grumbles as he gets whacked in the face by a multitude of feathers, but drifts up and behind Tommy, seating himself on the branch. Tommy extends his wings, letting Wilbur get to work. He’s had practice with Phil’s wings--far bigger, with darker feathers and more strength. Tommy’s wings are smaller, not suited for the kind of flying Phil’s are. They’re cuter, Wilbur thinks, faintly amused as he picks a bit of leaf litter from Tommy’s feathers. They’re a pale, dusty, tawny sort of color, similar to his hair, that fades out into darker browns and streaks of white about the edges. Tommy isn’t too fond of how they pale in comparison to Phil’s, but Wilbur thinks they’re perfect.

They remind him of songbirds, small and sweet. Tommy’s voice is just as musical, warbly and short and emotional in every way. He is loud, defiant and proud, and Wilbur finds it endearing. He finds this kid charming, cute in a lost puppy kind of way, wants to help him however he can. Folks say that Tommy was lucky to find Wilbur and Phil, but Wilbur thinks it’s the other way around.

He is so incredibly lucky to have found this kid. This feathered, asshole kid who shouts and isn’t afraid to start shit and speaks his mind. Wilbur’s undead life is so much better for TommyInnit, he thinks, smiling fondly as he flicks a bit of dust off of his feathers.

He works the feathers, presses his hands against the muscles to ease any tension. Tommy melts forward a bit, and Wilbur stifles a snicker at how similar it is to Phil. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Tommy grumbles, feathers ruffling, and Wilbur just giggles more.

“Sorry, sorry.” He finishes straightening out the feathers Tommy can’t quite reach, before sitting back to admire his work. “That feel better?”

Tommy stretches his wings with a content sigh. “Yeah. Thanks, big man.”

Wilbur grins. “Anytime, bushtit.”

He turns intangible before Tommy can properly shove him, the kid’s hands going through him and setting him off-kilter, losing his balance with a shriek as he falls off the branch. He softens his landing with a few frantic flaps of his wings, though his chest still takes the brunt of the impact with the ground.

Wilbur grins, hanging from the branch by his hands, dropping down to land on Tommy’s back, knocking the breath out of him.

“You’re an asshole,” Tommy grunts, breathlessly, bringing a wing up to swat at Wilbur’s back.

He stumbles, laughing all the while. “Whatever helps you sleep at night!”

“Get back here!” Tommy yells, scrambling to his feet and chasing after him.

Wilbur yelps, taking off at a sprint across the fields--he may be quick, but he knows Tommy is faster. He needs as much of a head start as he can get. The last little rays of sunlight sting against his skin, but the sun’s gone down enough to not actually burn him. He hears wingbeats, and spares a glance behind him to see that Tommy is gaining far more quickly than he expected.

He makes himself intangible, ducking into the earth. He hears Tommy shout above his head, and grins as he creeps back around behind him.

“That’s cheating!” Tommy yells, swiping at empty air. “Get back out here, you stupid fucking ghosty piece of--”

“Boo,” Wilbur says, reappearing right above him. Tommy yells again, but this time manages to hit him, and Wilbur’s concentration is broken. He hits the ground with a yelp.

“No fair,” he pouts, looking up at Tommy as the kid presses a foot lightly against his chest.

“I win,” Tommy says, grinning. “What do I get for winning?”

Wilbur sticks his tongue out. “Bragging rights.”

Tommy sits back with a huff. “Boooo. That’s not a prize. That’s just as shitty as a fuckin’ participation trophy.”

That earns a groan, and Wilbur rolls over to lay on his stomach. “If I sing you something, will you drop it?”

His eyes light up and he leans in, like a curious baby bird. “Maybe.”

Wilbur groans again, more exaggerated this time, and pulls himself to his feet. “Fine,” he drawls, long and imbued with mock suffering, “let’s go get my guitar.”

Tommy cheers, trailing after him as they make the trek back to Wilbur’s little haunted mansion, and they settle by the shore of Niki’s lake. Tommy sticks his feet in the water as Wilbur begins to play, kicking at nearby fish with reckless abandon as the tune drifts out over the little waves.

The lights of nearby homes and Niki’s underwater cavern reflect on the surface of the lake, dance their shadows across the little songbirds and their faces as Wilbur hums his tune.

He may not have wings or feathers or a high, warbly voice, but he sings just as sweet as the wrens and the warblers do every morning, and Tommy always adores it, adores everything his brother does more than he cares to admit.

“Sing another one,” he says, as the last notes fade out, leaning against Wilbur’s shoulder.

Wilbur smiles, and his fingers dance along the strings as he begins to sing again.

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading! if you like what i do, check me out on tumblr, twitter, & twitch @ cacowhistle!


End file.
